


Delightful

by Johnlockforthewin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, References to Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockforthewin/pseuds/Johnlockforthewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has kidnapped Sherlock. Again. But this time, there are a few more visitors as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Begin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a non-con/dub-con. Read at your own risk. The chapters will get longer as this continues. If you want to prompt, please do.

When Sherlock woke up, he knew that something was off. Hadn’t he just been with John; where did he go? In any case, he specifically did not remember going to an abandoned warehouse. He could tell from the smell and look that it hadn’t been occupied in several years.

There was noise behind him, feet shuffling, voices muffled, as he was still waking up. He sat up and turned around to find four chairs, in semi-circle, facing him. In those chairs, from left to right, were Sally Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and John, each with their own spotlight. Oh, there’s John. But why were the others here? Along with the dusty smell, there was also a faint hint of expensive cologne. Moriarty. Of course he should have know; who else?

As if on cue, Moriarty stepped out of the shadows.

“Well hello dear, it’s been so long hasn’t it?” His voice was high-pitched and mocking, and carried across the room to pierce Sherlock’s ears. His grin was good natured, but his eyes were deep black, madness crawling behind them, and betrayed his display of innocence.  

“Not quite long enough, in my opinion,” Sherlock responded.

“Well, does it _look_ like I care about your opinion? No!” He yelled the last word, and out of the corner of Sherlock’s eyes, he saw Anderson and Donovan flinch, which made him wonder why they were even here.

“Why do you have them?” Sherlock asked. “I suppose I understand John, but why the others? You should know that I don’t particularly care about the two on the left.” At this, Sally and Anderson bristled.

Moriarty smiled. “Oh, I know, but wouldn’t it be interesting to see if you who risk your life to save theirs?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and for all the non-geniuses in the room, I’ll explain. Sherlock here is going to entertain me. To do this, I will point a sniper at each of you, tell him his task, and if he does it correctly, you don’t die. Fair enough? Good. Let’s begin.”


	2. Burns and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Sherlock do to keep Sally alive?

A red dot appeared on Sally’s chest. She didn’t notice at first, but with Sherlock staring at her, she looked down and saw it. She told herself to stay calm. But that didn’t help with the fact that Sherlock would probably let her die. She almost regretted those things she had said, but not quite.

Moriarty turned back to a table, got something off of it, and threw what he got at Sherlock. The lighter he caught, the pack of cigarettes landed in his lap, and the folded pocket-knife hit the floor in front of him and slid across to his knees.

Sherlock looked up at Moriarty, waiting for his instruction.

“Okay darling, here’s what I want you to do. I am planning to break all of her fingers. For each time you cut yourself, one less finger will be broken. Understood? Tell me when you give, or I’ll decide. Either way, be quick about it.” The smile on his face could hardly be called a smile. It was contorted and evil, much like the man himself.

Sherlock raised the knife, unfolded it, and set it against his left forearm. The first cut he made didn’t hurt. He watched as the crimson liquid peeked out from under his pale flesh. He sighed in relief; he hadn’t done this in ages, but with Sally watching, it made it easier to want the pain.

The next two cut were not quite as deep as he would have liked, but dripped his regrets in little rivulets down his arm. The next few were done with the thought of his family in his mind. His father who beat him, his mother who hated him, and his brother, who was better than him at everything.

“Hurry up Sherly, I'm getting booored.”

The final cuts were quick and easy. He dropped the knife and looked up at Moriarty, who smiled and nodded his head at the cigarettes and the lighter. “I think you deserve a treat, don’t you? Go ahead.”

Sherlock took a fag out of the box and lit it. After a few drags, Moriarty laughed. “Okay dear, time’s up. Seeing as you still have your cigarette, why don’t you use that? Be creative,” Moriarty said in an unfittingly cheery tone. “But of course, if you do it wrong, she dies. Good luck.”

Sally looked away. She knew how bad those burns could hurt; she accidentally burned herself in uni once. She felt her head fly forward before she realised she’d been hit. So she had to watch, great.

Sherlock took the fag from his mouth and held it to his right arm, the one without the cuts. He knew how these felt; his father had… maybe he shouldn’t think of that right now. He stuck the lit end to his arm and held it there. Tears threatened to come, but he kept them at bay. After he lifted the fag, it was not burning, but still hot. Well, in for a penny. He stuck it to his skin and dragged it up his arm, creating a trail of ash. He heard Sally gasp.

He looked up to see Moriarty, still smiling, looking back at him. “Very good darling, she lives.” He turned around and pointed at Anderson. “But what about him?”


	3. Beaten and Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Sherlock do to save Anderson?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> This chapter contains mild descriptions of rape and self-harm. If this triggers you, do not read.

Anderson looked frightened—as he very well should—and looked at his own chest to see if there was a sniper on him. There was.

Moriarty picked up the knife, lighter, cigarette pack, and the used cigarette. In return, he gave Sherlock a blade; a very sharp blade.

Sherlock looked at it. “I already cut myself, seems unlike you to do the same thing twice.”

Moriarty smiled. “Oh Sherlock, that was to see if you’d save her. This is for you to prove that you have feelings.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped.

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Moriarty said. “He will talk to you, with his back turned, and when I think you’ve cut enough, I’ll turn him back around to see what he’s done. Good?” He clapped his hands behind his back and called out, “Sebby, come situate this one more…comfortably.”

‘Sebby’ came to Anderson’s chair, lifted it up, and turned it around. “Now,” Moriarty started. “I want you to talk to Sherlock, tell him what you really think of him.”

Anderson shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but began anyway. “Um, well you’re a freak for one.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. “You have no respect for any of the victims we talk to, um. And you’re rude all the time, to everyone including Lestrade, who is the one letting you work the cases. You’re a drug addict, still; I don’t believe you're clean.” Sherlock scowled. Anderson was getting angry now. “You're a monster, really. A psychopath, a creep, a, a, a _freak_.”

Sherlock looked down at his wrists, Moriarty forgotten, and remembered when his mum said those same things to him. A tear fell out of the corner of his eye, and he wiped it quickly. Anderson continued.

“And see, I can say these things, because you don’t care, you emotionless freak, you uncaring monster, you insane psychopath.”

“I am not a psychopath!” Sherlock yelled.

Anderson was quiet a moment, before speaking with enough venom is his voice to poison a snake. “You’re pathetic, trying to get people to sympathise with you. You act, you manipulate, you deceive, you lie, you're no better than any criminal we've ever caught. You—”

“Are you trying to imply that I am no better than a murderer, a rapist, a—” Sherlock was cut off.

“Yes! You are no better than them, you're worse. I've seen the way you treat victims, and you wonder why Lestrade doesn’t let you interview rape victims.”

“I don’t wonder. I know why, it isn’t that.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice chimed in. “Don’t, don’t do this to yourself, forget and move on. Don’t let these things get to you. They aren’t tr—“

“Aren’t true?” Sherlock asked. “Except, they are true. I am a freak, a monster, pathetic. I lie, deceive, manipulate, act. I am no better because…” Sherlock’s voice caught in his throat. “Anderson, do you know the real reason I don’t investigate rapes?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned. “Telling people right now will not help, and for god’s sake, not in front of your nemesis.”

Sherlock continued anyway. “It went for, for 22 years total. 12 years for one person, 10 for all the others.”

“Good god,” Lestrade whispered.

Anderson, idiot that he is, didn’t understand. “You raped someone for 12 years?! What—“

“No you idiot,” Lestrade said. “Someone raped him for 12 years, then when he was out on the streets for 10 years, well…”

“Can we _please._ ” Moriarty said, “start cutting you up? This sadness is very touching and a bit funny, but I am getting so bored just waiting here. But, because we’re on the point anyway, who did it Sherlock? Who was your rapist for 12 years? You can tell us, go ahead.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. Tears started to escape. ‘Sebby’ walked over and turned Anderson’s chair back around.

“What are you—oh wow,” Anderson said. “You’re _still_ acting? Jesus, give it up, no one believes you. I bet you just told Lestrade that to make him bad for you.”

“Anderson!” Lestrade yelled. “Shut up, he never wanted to tell me, I found out. I had… I saw it happen…” By the end of his sentence he was whispering.

“You, you what?” asked Anderson.

“I...” he trailed off, looking at Sherlock for permission to continue. He nodded and Lestrade began again. “I saw one time, while it was happening. I had gone to get Sherlock for a case, if he was clean, but I saw…it was just as he was… finishing. And at first I didn’t know that it was… _that_. I had thought it was just, his boyfriend or something, and I’d walked in on them, um, well, anyway I didn’t know, so I stepped out of the room. Then the man left and I, I said hello and I didn’t get a look at his face.

“I waited a bit before walking in the room, but when I did, I found Sherlock and it was…horrifying. Truly frightening. There was,” Lestrade took a breath. “There was blood everywhere. It-it was on the floor, the sheets, the-the wall. It was like a crime scene; well I suppose it was. Sherlock was,” he looked at Sherlock again, waiting for permission. Once it was given, he continued. “Sherlock was in the middle of the room… tied up. Bloody, crying, dirty, and I thought he was dead. He would have been in a few hours.

“I was so angry; that bastard had beaten him and left him for dead. After I untied Sherlock, that’s when I saw his body. The bruises, the scars, they weren’t all recent. I could tell it had been an ongoing thing. I…gosh I still don’t know who it was.” Lestrade wiped a tear that had escaped onto his shoulder.

Anderson sat there, jaw slack, eyes wide, and a look of horror, disgust, and guilt. When a small noise call from Sherlock’s direction, they all turned and saw him cutting himself, several times, hard, deep, and fast. In the background, Moriarty cackled.

“Haha, well that was interesting. You still don’t know? Poor thing; I bet I could get it out of him.” Moriarty smiled. “Let’s see how much our Sherlock cares about the Detective Inspector, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I was busy.


	4. Betrayed and Bullied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Sherlock do??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY it has taken so long. I can't promise regular updates, but I can tell you they won't be so few and far between.

Lestrade’s eyes widened. Moriarty snapped his fingers and another hench man went up to Lestrade, and yanked his head back by his hair.

“Hey—ouch!” Lestrade yelped. The man threw Lestrade out of his chair and to the ground, and kicked him. Lestrade grunted.

“Now Sherlock,” Moriarty began, “Why would you let this man hurt your friend like that? All you have to do to get him to stop is say the name of your rapist.” Moriarty smiled evilly.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade coughed out. “You don’t need to tell; I’ll be fine.”

Moriarty laughed, “Well that’s what you think, isn’t it? But you'll know better in a minute. All I have to do is break your arms.” Moriarty turned to look at Sherlock. “Do you want me to break his arms? Or would you rather have your own hands cut off? You’d never be able to work, or play violin, or anything. How sad. You could just break this one’s arms.”

Sherlock looked conflicted. He didn’t want to lose his hands but he didn’t want to break Lestrade's arms. _Broken arms will heal._ He thought as he said quietly, “Arms.”

“Ooh, really? Wouldn’t you rather save both of you and just tell me who your rapist was?” Moriarty asked in mock surprise.

“You can’t know. Nobody can know. I’m sorry Lestrade.”

Lestrade's eyes widened, then softened as he realised his arms would heal, but Sherlock’s hands would not.

Clearly, Sally and Anderson didn’t see that because, almost at the same time, they said, “What? You selfish freak, you can’t do that.”

But Moriarty’s eyebrow arched in actual surprise. “Very well,” he said simply.

Sherlock looked away as Lestrade’s arm was raised. He heard Lestrade take a deep breath, and then a loud crack followed by a grunt resonated through the empty space. Another crack and grunt, and Sherlock heard Lestrade crying softly, obviously trying not to.

“Soooo… Are we gonna get that name, Sherlock?” Moriarty sing-songed, clicking the k of Sherlock's name.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head.

Moriarty sighed, “Oh, you’re so _boring!_ Why don’t you just tell me? It’s a whole lot easier. Well, then I guess you don’t care if I—”

“Do something else; anything else, please,” Sherlock begged.

“Ooh, you used the P word. Thought you didn’t do manners, Sherlock.” Moriarty smiled.

“It’s not a matter of being polite, it’s a matter of… I’m begging you. Please. Anything else.”

“Oh, _any_ thing? Hmm…” Moriarty tapped his chin in deliberation. “Well, I could just show them footage from your, oh what was it, 18th birthday?” Moriarty grinned an evil grin.

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Sherlock, I may not know your ongoing rapist, but I do know about several other… incidents, shall we call them? Turn around.”

Sherlock turned and saw a large projector screen. _How did I miss that?_ An image flickered on and showed the face of a boy with a toothy smile and slick hair.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock mumbled.

“The banker?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

The image was fuzzy, but cleared up after a moment, and then Sebastian started talking. Someone else was holding the camera.

“Okay, so we’re going to play a prank on Holmes. He doesn’t really know much about social things, so we’re going to invite him to a party, and tell him to do stuff.” The boy on screen giggled. “Now Thomas has a camera hidden in his hat so Holmes won’t see it. Okay, let’s go.”

Sebastian turned around and the person filming followed. They reached a door labeled 109 and knocked on it.

The boy who opened the door clearly wasn’t Sherlock. “Oh, are we going now?” The boy asked.

“Yeah,” Sebastian chuckled.

The new boy followed Sebastian, who went just a few more doors down until he reached 102. They knocked and the boy who answered had black curly hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, piercing eyes, and was looking abundantly pissed off. Definitely Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Sebastian?” Sherlock’s voice was quite low for the age he looked.

“Well, it’s your birthday, right?” Sebastian asked.

Sherlock nodded, looking surprised.

“Well, I thought I would invite you to a party.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“Um, I… What?” Sherlock seemed at a loss for words.

“I said, do you want to come to the party at my dorm tonight?”

Sherlock nodded and smiled a little half-smile.

“Alright then, that’s settled.”

Sebastian turned around and walked back the way he came, camera and mystery person following.

The screen faded to black.

Moriarty’s voice was sharp in the silence. “I took the liberty of editing out the unimportant bits.”

Sherlock looked frozen, like he couldn’t believe what was going on. Maybe he couldn’t.

When the screen came back on, the party had started.


End file.
